Head over Wheels
by PuffPiece
Summary: Monsters - not a problem. Weekend activity for lame teenagers - catastrophe.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

 _That's it_ , Dean thinks, _this kid is so fucking dead._

The kid in question is a teenaged little punk who's been driving Dean nuts. Backwards hat, jeans riding low enough to show off his oversized boxer shorts, and a shit-eating grin that would rival Dean's own. He's been weaving in and out of traffic, flipping Dean the bird on a few occasions, and laughing every time he laps him on the floor.

Dean's making lazy ovals around the old-school wooden floor of the roller skating rink, kid in his sights, cursing Sam up, down, and sideways as he tries to keep his cool. The brothers Winchester had been called to investigate questionable occurrences in said blast from the past, both more than a little surprised that such things even still existed. Not even completely sure the rink has something Winchester-esque to take care of, they had nothing bigger brewing and decided it wouldn't hurt to at least take a look.

Actually, Sam thought that. Dean was just in it for the free nachos.

On their own, the questionable occurrences weren't all that odd. An exploding popcorn machine every now and again. An overflowing toilet in the men's bathroom. And every so often someone would complain that the laces of their roller-skates had been cut. But the manager was a friend of a friend of someone who once dated Sam's roommate (or something like that, Dean wasn't really listening) and so Sam's heartstrings were tugged just enough to check it out.

And here they are on a late Thursday afternoon in the middle of summer in Nowheresville USA. Probably the only reason that the place is as full as it is is because there's nothing else going on in town (although the locals are all atwitter about the upcoming County Fair and Tractor Pull) combined with the fact that it's summer and school's out. And it's air conditioned.

Dean's taken up the offers of free sodas and food while Sam's been painstakingly trying to wheedle information out of the manager. "Hey man, you're so hot and bothered to check this one out, you do the heavy lifting" had been Dean's exact words to Sam. These places gave him the skeeves. Ever since that summer Leslie Johnson dumped him unceremoniously during Couples Skate. (While Dean can admit that Bon Jovi rocks on occasion, "Bed of Roses" still makes his upper lip curl in disgust.)

After meandering around the building aimlessly for a little while, half-heartedly poking into dark corners full of nothing more sinister than castoff skates and a broken disco ball, Dean starts to notice that some of the parents are giving him the stink eye. Probably think he's a pervert, there to spy on their unsuspecting children. He tries to scowl back, but then decides to go find Sam. Failing in that task as well, he decides to try to blend in, lest he get the police called on his ass for suspected ogling.

Speaking of ogling….

Dean's attention is grabbed by the perky backside of a young co-ed, tight Daisy Duke's not hampering her skating ability one bit. She brings the whistle hanging around her neck up to her mouth, gives Dean a wink, and blows out a couple of sharp tweets signaling a change of direction for the skaters.

Dean's mouth goes dry as he thinks about how lucky that whistle is.

As much as he would never admit it to Sam, he was actually pretty good at this kind of thing once upon a time. So he laces up and heads out to the floor of the rink, gradually feeling the old mojo returning as he makes mindless loops around the polished floor. He's keeping his target in his sight, flirting with his eyes and facial expressions as only Dean Winchester can, when he begins to notice the little punk. He's carefully weighing his options – hot whistle girl versus teenaged hellion – when he catches Sam's eye.

He begins to make his way over to the wall Sam's leaning on, ready to smack the smirk off his brother's face, when the little punk clips Dean, upending him in a spectacular slow motion fall that sends his arms cartwheeling to the disco strobe light beat of "Another One Bites the Dust". Somewhere in the back of Dean's brain, the irony is not lost.

The forefront of Dean's mind, however, is otherwise occupied as he lands on his right arm, his full body weight driving his elbow into the hard wooden floor. He feels a sickening crunch from said elbow that immediately steals his breath away and threatens to unleash the nachos he's inhaled not too long ago.

He just lays there for a couple of moments, curled up on his right side, wheels of his skates lazily spinning while his fellow skaters try to avoid causing a ten car pileup.

Sam's initial disappointment that he left his phone in the car and therefore can't capture Dean's image for use in future blackmail attempts is replaced by growing concern as Dean fails to get up. He hustles over and kneels beside his brother, watching as Dean pants in an effort to get himself under control.

The whistle girl pulls up alongside them and the lightbulb goes on in Sam's head – of course Dean was chasing a girl. She glances down at the two of the them, a concerned look on her face, then quickly ushers the curious onlookers to the far side of the floor where she engages them in a rousing rendition of the Limbo.

Too bad Dean's otherwise occupied. Her shorts really don't leave much to the imagination.

"Heyheyhey," Sam says, laying a hand on Dean's left shoulder. "It's okay, you're okay." He gets a brief nod from Dean, unspoken allowance to continue. "Let me see."

Dean gives another couple of pants, then "Can't…" A few deep breaths, "Can't feel my arm."

Sam's eyebrows raise fractionally, and he delves further into triage mode. He slides his fingers into the loosely curled fist of Dean's right hand. "Ok, squeeze my hand." Sam feels a faint flicker around his fingers, but even that causes Dean to inhale sharply and break out in a cold sweat. Sam changes his grip and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels a strong pulse at his brother's wrist.

He eases his brother up into a seated position and Dean immediately curls into himself, clutching his right elbow to his body like it might try to make a break for it. The change in position has worsened Dean's already pale complexion to a now more wax-like countenance and Sam takes stock of the possibilities for make shift vomit basins should the need arise. He makes short work of getting the skates off of Dean's feet and throws the manager a quick glance of relief when he hastens over with Dean's boots.

"Want me to figure out a sling?"

Dean shakes his head, not wanting to move his arm one iota.

"Hospital?" Sam asks, after he and the manager have managed to get Dean onto his unsteady feet.

"Crap," Dean replies weakly.

General Winchester rule of thumb: you go to the hospital if you can't feel something you really should be able to feel.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean's fractured his elbow and the distal part of his humerus and, added bonus, he's managed to displace them as well. Both the ER doctor and the orthopedic specialist try to reduce the fractures in the ER, but Dean's arm is as stubborn as he is. And while the attempts to get his bones to line back up the right way aren't successful, they are successful in unleashing Dean's spectacular vocabulary. Even in his semi-drugged state he's able to bring a blush to the ears of the patients in the surrounding exam rooms while they're tugging on his arm.

And so, Dean ends up in emergency surgery, where it takes the insertion of several pins to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean raises his head from where it's been resting against the seat of the Impala and tries his best to glare at the latest fly in his ointment. He's got an ACE-wrapped splint in place from his wrist to just below his shoulder, elbow bent at a 90-degree angle, the whole thing encased in a sling to help hold him together. He'll have to go back to get it casted once the swelling goes down.

While he's relieved that he can at least wiggle his fingers and feel his hand again, he isn't sure that numbness wouldn't be the better option at this point. Because his arm is friggin' killing him. A deep throbbing pain at rest that ratchets up to a "where's the nearest sharp object so I can cut off my own arm" level with the slightest movement which, combined with the remnants of the anesthesia, are bringing him dangerously close to asking Sam to stop the car so he can ralph up anything still tucked into the corners of his stomach. He'd already blessed the PACU with his stomach contents several times prior to being discharged; he's not entirely convinced that there won't be an encore performance.

"You okay, man?" Sam asks at annoying intervals. He throws quick glances in Dean's direction before bringing his attention back to the road, trying to gage the level of his brother's pain and not liking the greenish tinge of his face. "Tell me if I need to stop, okay?"

Dean nods weakly, praying he doesn't have to subject his Baby to a display of his stomach pyrotechnics.

()o()o()o()o()

Both Sam and Dean let out almost inaudible sighs when they pull up in front of their motel room. Sam scrambles around and opens the door for Dean who's just sitting in the passenger's seat, preparing himself for another change in altitude. He works his legs out of the car first, then holds up his left hand in an unspoken request for Sam to give him a few seconds. Cradling his right arm with his left, he finally deep breaths himself to a standing position while Sam hovers in the off-chance that Dean decides to suddenly inspect the ground.

Sam guides his still flagging brother into their room, gently depositing Dean onto his bed where he sags against the headboard in relief. Sam eyes his brother's boots, resting on the bed in all of their filth, and leans in to remove them in a brotherly gesture.

Dean cracks an eyelid and reflexively jerks his foot out of Sam's hand, too late remembering that sudden movements are not his friend right now. A wave of almost unbearable pain races up his arm where it threatens to scramble his brain and send him into the black unawareness of unconsciousness. He grabs his arm and Sam watches, hands still poised at Dean's feet, as Dean tilts sideways to his left in a controlled motion, buries his face in the pillow, and lets out a low moan.

"Dean, man," Sam says in an urgent whisper, "you've gotta chill out. Let me help you."

Sam strains to hear Dean's muffled reply, although he's pretty sure he's glad he can't make out the string of curses Dean's put together. Dean finally turns his head out of the pillow and says to his brother, "Fuckin hurts, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, I know. That's why I'm trying to help you."

Neither of them are sure they can put up with this for six to eight weeks.

()o()o()o()o()

Dean's focused on her mouth, full lips surrounding the whistle as she purses and blows. And his subconscious wonders what else her mouth's good for. And as that thought flits through his brain before detouring for parts further south, he moves to roll over into a more comfortable viewing position, sending a fire ball up his right arm.

He comes fully awake in an instant, gasping for breath as he remembers why his arm feels like it's been put through a meat grinder. From where he's lying, he can see it propped up on a stack of pillows (now precariously tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa) and the memories of yesterday hit him smack in the face. Punk kid. Broken arm. Surgery. Rollerskating. _Rollerskating?_ He always knew something stupid would be the death of him. Monsters – not a problem; weekend activity for lame teenagers – catastrophe.

Dean bites back a groan as he tries to haul himself into a seated position with a minimal amount of jostling.

Sam looks up from where he's been working on his computer and does a brief full-body sweep, taking in his brother's sleep heavy eyes, disheveled hair, and pain-etched face. "Hey," he says with a hopeful smile – today's bound to be better, right? "How're you feeling?"

Dean shoots him one of his patented Death Glares and tries to gently reposition his splinted arm with his left while he slumps back against the headboard. "Just peachy," he replies, voice still gravelly from anesthesia. "This thing's a friggin' basket of kittens," he says, nodding at his arm. He continues mumbling mostly to himself, "Impossible to get comfortable, can't hold my knife…" He lightly bangs his head against the wall a couple of times to emphasize his level of disgust at his current situation and then heaves a sigh.

"You wanna go get breakfast?" Sam asks, still eyeing his brother.

Dean rubs his face with his left hand, before casting his sleepy glance around the room. "Breakfast? What time is it?"

"Ten."

"AM?" he asks, brain too slow to register the sunlight pouring in through the thinly veiled curtains.

Sam casts another concerned glance at his brother, the obviousness of the daylight not lost on him. "Uh, yeah," he says succinctly, giving his brother a pass. For now.

Dean gives breakfast a consideration, notes that the post-anesthesia stomach gymnastics are no longer a threat, and agrees that food sounds like a good option.

"Just let me get a shower first."

"How are you…" Sam begins as Dean slowly makes his way to the edge of the bed.

"Not my first time in a plastic bag Sam," Dean says, hugging his right arm to himself as he swings his legs onto the floor. He and his brother have had enough broken bones to know the best ways to keep a cast from getting wet. And while he doesn't have a cast (yet), the surgeon had told him to treat his splint just as he would a cast. Don't get it wet. Don't even think about removing it.

He stands up without incident, then lets out a string of curses when he tries to unbutton the jeans he'd been too tired to remove the night before.

"You okay over there?" asks Sam, his tone a mixture of real concern and amusement at his brother's predicament.

"Fuck that hurts," Dean reiterates when it becomes obvious that his right hand isn't up to its usual fine-motor control. He briefly tries to accomplish the task with his left hand, letting out a low growl of frustration when that fails him as well.

"Want me…" Sam weakly offers, broken off by Dean's sharp "No!"

"Fine," Sam mumbles to himself, returning to his computer screen while trying to surreptitiously follow Dean's progress.

Dean finally gives a grunt, working the jeans off one-handed and kicking them off of his feet in disgust. The boxers shouldn't be anywhere near as difficult. The shirt, on the other hand, could be kind of tricky.

He reaches his left arm across his body and grabs hold of the right bottom of his T shirt in what he thinks has the best chance of success. He gets the shirt as far as his shoulder before he realizes that his arm won't move enough to accommodate the rest of the maneuver.

"Want me to cut it off?" Sam offers, startling Dean out of his contemplation.

"What? No!" Dean replies with indignation. "I'm running low on T shirts as it is." He gives it a few more seconds of thought before coming up empty. "Help?" he says softly.

"I'm sorry. What was that?" Sam knows he's dangerously close to getting a smack on the back of his head, but he has to cherish these moments of brotherly love.

Dean, reading Sam's enjoyment in the situation, just throws him a mental "Fuck You", wincing when his right middle finger attempts the same.

Sam rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, calculating how to help his big brother without adding additional pain. He gently eases the shirt up the same way Dean had tried, having better luck in guiding the sleeve off of the splinted arm with the use of two hands. Three, if you count Dean's left hand which is slowly helping to reposition his right around Sam's maneuvers.

Sam casts a quick glance around the room, finds a couple of clean plastic bags with the room's ice bucket, and makes short work of getting Dean's splinted arm waterproofed. They're going to need to make a run for garbage bags and Duct tape before long.

Showering goes off without much of a hitch. Dean's been in this situation before, although the typical short arm cast isn't usually this big or cumbersome. But he's already resigned himself to the fact that besides the right arm that won't be uncovered for about two months, his left arm won't be getting washed for the foreseeable future either.

Once he determines that he's reached as many places as he can, he dries himself off rather haphazardly, then clutches the towel around his waist in a one-handed death grip.

"You okay?" Sam asks again as he emerges from the bathroom and he gives a quick nod, concentrating on making it over to his duffel bag without dropping the towel. Or his right arm falling off. Because without the sling or his arm for support, gravity is being a real bitch.

He makes short work at getting into a clean pair of boxers, then allows Sam to help him in a reversal of their prior clothing dance. Once his shirt's in place, he holds onto to his right arm with his left and even allows Sam to help him with his pants. Because he's an awesome big brother.

Clean and clothed, Dean completes his ensemble with the sling, gingerly sliding his arm in place as Sam gets it into its proper position and adjusts the strap.

"Better?" Sam asks, giving his brother a gentle pat on his left shoulder.

Dean pauses, giving serious contemplation to the question, then lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gives a quick nod.

"Here," Sam says, shaking a pain pill into Dean's hand before his brother knows what he's doing. Sam knows his brother won't ask for pain medications, will try to deny that he needs them. He also knows how cranky he gets when he's in pain and would rather head that beast off at the pass.

Dean eyeballs the small white tablet, considers telling Sam he's fine. Then dry swallows it as his arm reminds him of its recent surgical endeavors. It's times like these that Dean's glad his brother knows him so well.

To Be Continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Son of a bitch," Dean mumbles as he chases his sausage link around his plate. The pancakes weren't much of an issue, soft enough to cut with a fork even left-handed, but the sausage is really making him angry. It's rubbery enough that it just keeps jumping across his plate each time he tries to cut it with his fork and one of these times he wouldn't be surprised if it hit Sam in the forehead. Dean smirks, the mental picture created by that thought enough to make him forgive said sausage link for the time being, and decides to forgo niceties, determining that sausage is a finger food for the immediate future.

"So what do you think we should do?" Sam asks, watching his brother stuff the remainder of his breakfast into his bottomless pit. He sincerely hopes his brother's stomach has returned to its usual steel trap tendencies; he does not want a repeat performance of yesterday's vomit fest.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks around his mouthful of food.

"Dude, swallow," Sam admonishes, earning him the requisite open mouthed view of Dean's partially masticated meal. Sam merely wrinkles his nose, considering this one of the least offensive things his brother has done in the past week. "About the rink."

Dean chases his meal with a healthy slug of coffee before leaning back against the booth, shifting his splinted arm a bit and offering additional support to the sling with his left. "I don't know, man. What did you find out?"

"You mean besides the fact that you're embarrassing?"

"Hey!" Dean says, kicking Sam's shin under the table, "No fair. Injured here."

"Yeah. Because you're a horn dog," replies Sam, absentmindedly rubbing his shin and moving himself out of Dean's range for further retaliation.

A slow grin slides over Dean's face, licking his lips reflexively as he remembers his dream of Whistle Girl.

"Dean!" Sam says to his brother, not liking the faraway look in his brother's eyes. He's seen that look all too often, and it's usually accompanying something rated worse than PG-13.

Dean shoots his brother a look of annoyance; Sam's been a mood killer for as long as he can remember. "Fine," he huffs out. "So was Mr. Roller Rink Manager able to shed any light on the issue?"

Sam's shoulders relax a bit, now that his brother's focus is back on the potential hunt and away from any activities that would best be accompanied by porn music.

"I don't know," says Sam, toying with the kale leaf garnish on his plate. "Could be something. Could be nothing."

"Be a little more cryptic next time, why don't you," mumbles Dean, trying to readjust his arm that's suddenly decided to remind him of his previous day's excitement.

"Well," Sam says, leaning a little closer to his brother in order to be heard in the crowded diner without someone overhearing their conversation. "Craig told me these activities," he finger quotes the last word, "have been going on intermittently for a few years now. Can't seem to nail down a pattern. Can't quite even remember when it all began. He just said he's been working there for two years now and it had begun before his time."

"Crap," says Dean, defeat in his voice as he realizes their next step. "Research?" he asks dully, already aware of the answer.

"Yep," confirms Sam, the excitement evident in his face. "I already did some digging online. Not much there. So I think the library's the best bet, especially in a small town like this."

Dean hangs his head in dejection. This day just keeps getting better and better.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam keeps a close eye on his brother, watching for the telltale signs of pain. Bitching and moaning he'll let slide. Part of that's just Dean's aversion to research anyway. But he doesn't want Dean's pain levels to get out of control. As much for his brother's comfort as for his own. Because a Dean in pain is a pain in Sam's ass.

Frankly, Sam's kind of surprised that Dean didn't try to stay back at the motel room. Not that he would've let him anyway. Wouldn't have put it past him to try to weasel his way out of his splint and mess his arm up even further. But Dean had just put in the few requisite moans about having to tag along while Sam got his geek on, then mindlessly fiddled with the radio for the entirety of the car ride to the library.

Sam made a few quick inquiries with the librarian on duty, a rather Plain Jane that Sam charmed faster than Dean could say "My brother's an idiot who loves books", and before they knew it they had login information and passwords to the local newspaper's online archives.

"Wait, wait. Go back," Dean says as Sam scans through the headlines of a paper from several years ago. The two of them are huddled at an empty computer console, sorting through possible headlines in an attempt to see if they can find anything noteworthy.

Sam does as Dean instructs, slowly working his way backwards, stopping at a headline that sounds like a safe place to start: "Teen dies tragically at local Roller Rink".

The boys scan the article, taking note of the pertinent facts. Fourteen-year old Jason Whitaker, tragic death at the local roller skating rink, seizure during which the victim stopped breathing, CPR at the scene was unsuccessful.

Sam gives a low whistle when he reaches the end of the article. "Think this is it?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean replies succinctly. When Sam just stares at him, eyebrows raised in question, Dean points to the picture of the deceased teen and says, "That's the little punk who tripped me."

"Oh shit," Sam says, slightly less inclined to keep dogging Dean about Whistle Girl's role in his brother's injury now that there's a supernatural bent to the story.

But only slightly. Because Dean's still an idiot.

Sam busily scribbles some notes, Dean valiantly attempting the same with his non-dominant left hand before Sam snatches Dean's paper out from under his arm.

"Hey!" Dean cries, making a failed attempt to grab the paper back from Sam.

Sam just holds it out of Dean's reach, turning the paper at ninety degree angles in an attempt to make sense of what his brother's been writing.

Dean's "normal" handwriting is barely legible at the best of times. Sam wonders if this is even English. Might be cuneiform. Or gibberish. It's hard to tell.

Dean finally grabs the paper back from Sam once Sam's determined there's no way he'll be able to decipher it and Dean goes through the same motions as his brother, narrowing his eyes and turning the paper every which way before he, too, determines that his writing is shit.

Dad taught them how to be ambidextrous with a gun. Not so much with a pen.

He crumbles the paper in his left hand, aims it at the wastebasket in the corner of the computer room, and shoots left-handed, failing to come anywhere close to making a basket. Fucking arm.

They make quick work of digging through a few more papers, adding a stray detail here and there before deciding to head back to the motel to regroup. Sam can tell Dean's pain levels are increasing by the way he keeps shifting his arm every few minutes, trying not to wince but failing miserably.

So he pronounces their job done for the day, packs up his belongings, and ushers a grumbling Dean back to the Impala, making a mental note of the flyers plastered on the community bulletin board as they pass by. The upcoming County Fair/Tractor Pull takes up most of the space, surrounded by a few Help Wanted and Odd Jobs notations. He figures his brother might be in need of a little distraction and despite Dean's mocking jabs, what about a County Fair doesn't scream Dean Winchester? Where else is it perfectly legitimate to eat an entire meal of fried foods off of a stick?

()o()o()o()o()

"You sure you're up for this?" Sam asks for what Dean thinks is probably the tenth time that morning.

"Man, I'm fine." Dean rolls his eyes and reaches across himself to open the Impala's passenger door, taking his time in swinging his frame out of the car to avoid any unnecessary motion of his arm. Because he is fine. Mostly. At least a little better than yesterday. He thinks.

Sam had put the kibosh on further activities after yesterday's library excursion, decisively stating that Dean needed to rest. Dean had weakly protested, but mostly on principle. His arm had been killing him by the time they'd finished with their research and he'd popped the pain pills with little more than a few brief attempts to reassure Sam that he was fine. He'd ended up napping the majority of the afternoon and by the time he'd awoken, Sam had purchased take-out and was already in the midst of a movie marathon.

If it wouldn't signal the end of the world, Dean would consider thanking Sam for his thoughtfulness. But Sam will just have to read his mind, because unless Dean suffers a brain injury of his own, those words will not be coming out of his mouth. And even then, he can just blame it on the brain injury.

And now they're back at rink, armed with additional information and ready to dig a little deeper into what they now consider to be an actual case. A small potatoes case, but a case nonetheless. Especially since Dean was on the wrong end of said potatoes.

He closes the door and leans against his baby, absently cradling his right arm in his left while he steels himself to re-enter the scene of his humiliation.

Injuries he can handle. Hell, they're part of the job. He's broken more bones than he knew he had. But this? This is quite literally what the phrase "adding insult to injury" is all about.

Dean pushes himself off the car door and meanders over to where Sam is hammering on the front door of the still closed roller rink. The place won't open for another hour or so, but Sam had gotten assurances that Craig would be there waiting for them when they showed up this morning.

Just as Sam's considering getting out his lock pick, the boys see Craig hustling towards them through the glass double doors.

"Sorry, sorry," he puffs slightly breathlessly, stepping back to let them past his rather rotund frame. "Had to freshen up a bit..." he says, leading them back to his office.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean mutters, catching Sam's glance at the distinctive smell that's surrounding Craig like a cloud of questionably legalized perfume. Dean briefly wonders how effective second-hand marijuana smoke is for pain relief. Thinks maybe he should just follow Craig around for the next couple of days.

Sam, however, plays the narc. "What are you doing?" he asks, Bitch Face directed at the roller rink manager. "Isn't this a family place?"

Craig's right eyebrow edges towards the ceiling as he considers both Sam's question and his tone. "How else am I supposed to get through the day? You try putting up with these punk kids. And then there's the parents."

Dean has to admit the guy has a point. If he had to manage this place he'd probably be drunk 24/7. Or in jail for manslaughter. So many punk kids, so little time…

Of course, the fact that several years ago he was the very definition of the term "punk kid" is completely lost on him.

Sam gives Craig a huff in response, drawing Dean's attention back to the task at hand: finding out more about the little dead punk.

"Hey Mary Jane," says Dean, tapping the table between where he and Sam sit on one side and Craig sits in his chair on the other. "What do know about a Jason Whitaker?"

"Who?" Craig asks, the confusion furrowing his brow as he glances back and forth between the brothers.

"Fourteen-year old?" Dean tries again, "Had a seizure?"

"Oh yeah," Craig says, bobbing his head a little as bits and pieces cut through the fog swirling around his brain cells. "Isn't that the kid who died here?"

Sam glances over at his brother, a nonverbal signal that he'll take over the questioning. Fine by Dean. Means he can inhale a little deeper.

Sam's Bitch Face is replaced swiftly by his best Caring and Sharing expression, gently coaxing as many details from the manager's mellow brain as he can. Not that it's that helpful. Apparently it had happened before his time on the job, maybe a year or two by the timeframe he manages to outline.

"Huh," says Craig staring into middle distance as he tries to grasp onto a stray thought. Dean and Sam glance at each other, then back to Craig, Sam finally clearing his throat in an attempt to get Craig back onto whatever train of thought he'd gotten derailed from.

"Oh, right," he says, shaking his head a little and giving the Winchesters a shrug of apology. "I wonder if that was the reason the last guy left."

"Or maybe the weird stuff chased him away?" Dean says once the boys are outside of Craig's office. "Either way, I think it's a safe bet that Mr. High and Happy in there," he says, nodding to Craig's door, "isn't gonna be all that much help."

Sam snorts at the understatement of his brother's comment. "Yeah, I think we can consider ourselves lucky that he was coherent enough to let us in."

"Great," says Dean sarcastically, "so we've still got nothing."

"Well," says Sam, glancing at his watch, "the place doesn't open for another half hour. You okay to check the place out again?" He takes a long look at Dean, making note of how his brother quickly straightens himself upright, pushing off from against the wall that he'd been holding up before throwing an eye roll back at Sam.

"Of course," Dean says, "I told you, I'm fine."

Sam just quirks an eyebrow at him, and gives a nonchalant "Mmmm hmmmm" in reply. "Alright then," he says, turning and heading back into the men's bathroom to take a closer look at the scenes of the supernatural crimes.

By the time the rink has opened for the day, they've failed to find any plumbing abnormalities to otherwise account for the intermittent floods in the bathroom, nor have they found any evidence of faulty wiring to explain the explosive popcorn machine.

Nor do they witness any of the theatrics that brought them to the rink in the first place.

The place is quiet.

And Dean is bored.

And his arm aches.

And Sam, wanting to keep it from flaring into something worse, packs up a grumbling Dean, reassuring him that the hunt isn't going anywhere. He can continue with some of his research from their motel room, once he's assured Dean's pain is taken care of.

Besides, he has some rather important decisions of his own to make.

Dean will be getting his cast on soon. And paybacks are a bitch.

()o()o()o()o()

"Nice cast," says Sam, as his brother rejoins him in the waiting room after his post-op visit a few days later.

Dean glances down at the black behemoth that encases his arm from wrist to just under his shoulder, elbow still held at 90 degrees, and gives his best shrug, the sling and cast hampering the effectiveness of the gesture on his right side.

The surgeon had been pleased with how he was healing, took out all of the remaining stitches, and deemed him worthy of a more permanent method of torture. When the assistant had asked him what color cast he wanted, Dean had responded immediately, having given it more than just a passing thought.

Neither he nor Sam are strangers to the world of casts; for a couple of years in their teens it had seemed like one or the other of them was trying to keep the orthopedic specialty in business on a regular basis.

Which has also given the brothers ample opportunity to perfect their cast decoration skills.

After Sam's last broken leg, Dean figured that he'd probably need to sleep with one eye open if he ever broke something again. And the pain meds he's still requiring are sure going to make that difficult.

So his current choice of black is his foolproof way of avoiding any of Sam's "artwork" this time around.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam pulls in to the Walmart parking lot on their way back to the motel, telling Dean to stay put - he'll just be a few minutes to restock their cast waterproofing supplies.

That part, at least is true. It's the other item on his list that he fails to mention to his brother.

Dean acquiesces, just lays his head back against the headrest and tries not to let the ache in his arm flare into anything stronger. His pain levels have been slowly improving overall but the positioning required for the change from splint to cast, while not usually anything of consequence, was enough movement to make him wish he had a couple of the pain pills tucked away in the glove compartment.

He doesn't. He already checked.

Mindful of Dean's predicament and not wanting to prolong his shopping trip unnecessarily, Sam quickly gathers the garbage bags and Duct tape before making his way over to the office supply section. He peruses the shelves and makes quick work of emptying the store of his desired art supply.

He's never bought so much White Out in his life.

TBC…

Author's Note: Thanks for reading – hope you're enjoying!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Sam!" Dean bellows into the empty room.

He curses himself for falling for his brother's ruse. Sam had acted all caring, throwing his doe eyes at him while helping him into bed after they'd gotten back from getting his arm casted. Had carefully helped him prop his arm up and then practically poured a couple of pain pills down his throat.

 _Son of a bitch is crafty, I'll give him that._

He glances down at his casted arm, out of its sling to avoid strangulation while he sleeps, and lets out another groan.

His previous manly, Sam-proof, black cast is now decorated in white. White flowers. White hearts. He squints his eyes and rotates his arm slightly. _Is that a unicorn?_ Dammit, Sam!

He snorts his way out from under the covers, kicks his blankets off of his legs and heaves himself to his feet looking for a clue as to where his brother might be hiding. He finds his clue lying on the table by the door, the back of a receipt tucked under Dean's phone.

"Out."

 _Gee, thanks for clarifying,_ Dean thinks to himself.

He flips the piece of paper over, idly noting it's the Walmart receipt from earlier today. He does a double-take, eyes practically bugging out of his head when he sees the amount of White Out Sam has purchased. He does a quick calculation, taking in the approximate amount currently located on his cast, cringing when he thinks that Sam has probably not even come close to exhausting his supply.

()o()o()o()o()

"Seriously man? White Out?" Deans asks his brother the moment he steps foot back in the room.

Sam swipes his hair out of his face, the sweat ring around his neck and under his armpits combined with his clothing choices making it a safe bet that he'd gone out for a run after completing his arts and crafts project.

Sam gives a smirk as he kicks of his sneakers, appreciating the look of mutiny on his brother's face. "Well," he says, dropping pieces of clothing on the floor as he makes his way into the bathroom for a shower. "I did have a lot of time to think about it. And paybacks are a bitch."

With that nonchalant explanation, he leaves Dean to stew in his juices, still wondering how he didn't wake up while Sam was working on him.

Despite (or perhaps because of) the ill will towards his brother at the moment, he can't help the smirk that crosses his face remembering the last cast decorations he'd given Sam. His brother had been in a leg cast after breaking his ankle while on a hunt before he'd gone off to college. The poor chump had stupidly chosen a plain white cast. Which Dean had left alone just long enough for Sam to lower his guard. At which point he'd decorated his cast with various shades of glitter.

Their dad had complained for weeks about finding "that damned girly shit" everywhere. Good thing they weren't being hunted by anything at the time – all someone would've had to do would be to just follow the glitter trail to the pot of unfortunate glitter gold at the end of the rainbow.

And Sam had complained that he kept finding the sparkly little pieces in places on his body where glitter really shouldn't be allowed. Unless, perhaps, you were a stripper.

So it really shouldn't surprise Dean that Sam's been stewing all these years. And he finds himself just a tad bit impressed with Sam's ability to think outside of the box. The glitter, while packing a powerful initial punch, had worn off rather quickly, leaving him wishing he'd thought of something with a longer shelf life.

He's pretty sure he's stuck with Sam's handiwork until he has a fully functioning arm again.

()o()o()o()o()

"This thing is hot as hell," Dean says, readjusting his arm inside the sling.

"Well whose genius idea was it to get a black cast in the middle of summer?"

"Shut up."

It's a good thing Sam's walking on his right, otherwise his little brother would've just earned himself a slap to the backside of his head. As it is, Sam's trying to protect Dean's injured arm as they wind their way through the crowds at the fairgrounds. Not their usual idea of a good time, but hey, When in Rome, Do like the Midwesterners and head to the County Fair.

And Sam really does think his brother will enjoy this. Dean's pain levels are finally tolerable (as long as he doesn't move his arm at all) and Sam hopes the various low-budget distractions will help to take his brother's mind off the lingering ache he's admitted to having.

Besides, if they'd stayed in their motel room for one more second, one of them was likely to get stabbed. And it's a toss-up as to who would've been the victim and who would've been the perpetrator.

And Sam's suspicion that Dean's heaven may very well involve deep fried foods on a stick is confirmed, his brother working his way through the various food trucks with gusto while he himself gives up hope of seeing anything fresh and green.

"Pickles", Dean says, helpfully pointing out the fried pickles on a stick while he works his way through his second corn dog. "Green."

"Let me know when they figure out how to put a salad on a stick," Sam mutters, trying to keep his disgust in check. He doesn't even know why Dean's diet surprises him anymore. His brother has been lubricating himself with greasy foods for several decades now. It's a wonder he doesn't sweat rancid oil.

But Sam does know the way to his brother's heart (through his stomach), and a Dean full of grease is a happy one indeed. He's cracking jokes about their fellow fair dwellers (the sheer volume of John Deere hats and overalls being the most frequent punchline), reminding Sam about some of the fairs they've frequented over the years (he tries to convince Sam that the Guess Your Weight man is the same one from that fair in Tennessee – he distinctly remembers the unibrow), and even challenges Sam to some of the games that were the source of fierce competitions in years past.

Competitions that were stacked much more in Dean's favor back then, having had the benefit of four years more experience, several inches in height, and the use of his dominant hand.

Because Dean can't throw darts for shit with his left hand; the booth operator is lucky to escape without any additional holes in his already rather pierce-heavy body.

And the little basketball competition isn't so much a competition as Sam mopping the floor with him.

But he still manages to beat his brother at the water gun shootout. First when they're both using their left hands, then even after Sam exclaims – "I have a secret. I am not left-handed!" and rechallenges Dean with his right.

"Dude," Dean says, eyebrow cocked to show his disgust at his brother's comment. "Seriously? The Princess Bride? Can you get any more girly?"

A sheepish look crosses Sam's face before his eyes narrow in suspicion. "Wait a minute. How do _you_ know that's from The Princess Bride?"

Dean's mouth flaps for a few seconds before he covers it with a scowl and growls at his brother to "shut up and get ready to lose again".

Which he does.

And while Dean's in it for the food and games, the people are what Sam enjoys most. Watching the sea of humanity as it ebbs and flows around him. Families out for an evening of enjoyment. Young love sneaking kisses at the top of the Ferris wheel. Small children, eyes wide in wonder at the lights and commotion.

And then there's the raucous teenagers, making a nuisance out of the themselves and generally raising hell. And running, quite literally, into his brother's casted arm before disappearing back into the crowd without an apology or a backwards glance.

Dean doubles over immediately, clutching his right arm tightly to his body through the sling, breathing deeply as if his life depended on it.

"Oh fuck," he groans out between breaths, a sheen of sweat making an appearance along his hairline. Suddenly that last corn dog doesn't seem like such a good idea.

He doesn't fight Sam (couldn't even if he wanted to, given the fact that his vision's graying out) as he guides his nearly-hyperventilating brother to an open picnic table, depositing him onto an empty bench.

While Dean's rocking back and forth, trying to convince the corn dogs not to make a reappearance, Sam absently pats his brother's back while scanning the crowd in vain for the little twerp.

"Dude, incoming," Sam stage-whispers to Dean when he spies Whistle Girl making her way towards their table instead.

Dean manages to glance up from where he's huddled over his arm and follows Sam's gaze. He gives a few additional low moans and stomps his left foot into the ground several times, trying to work the pain out of his system before she gets in range. He then steels himself, not wanting to look like a gigantic girl. That's Sam's deal.

"Wow, impressive cast," she says, running her eyes over the rest of his body as well before sitting down next to Dean.

"If you're going to do something, might as well do it right," Dean says, trying to throw his best Winchester smile past the pain.

"Saw you guys over here, thought I'd check up on you. See how you made out." She gives Dean another long look, flicking her gaze briefly to Sam before returning her gaze back to Dean.

Sam rolls his eyes. Typical.

"Janie," she says by way of introduction.

"Dean," says Dean before tossing his chin towards his brother. "Sam."

She gives Sam a nod of acknowledgement, then gestures to the casted arm Dean's left arm is still clinging to for dear life. "How bad?"

"Couple of breaks. Couple of pins. Nothing a little R and R won't take care of," Dean says, downplaying his current level of discomfort. Which is just this side of "Dear God, I need some drugs". And doesn't come close to fooling Sam, who can plainly see the muscles working at Dean's jaw as he tries valiantly to bite back further emotive outbursts.

"Poor thing," Janie persists. "Does it hurt?"

 _Only when I look at it wrong_ , Dean thinks. Instead, he reassures her he's fine.

She leans in a little closer, curious at the white images dotting his cast, peeking under the sling to get a better glimpse.

"Is that a unicorn?" she asks, her facial expression clearly showing the disbelief at having such a feminine image on a grown man's cast.

 _Dammit Sam._

"I love unicorns!"

A slow lascivious smile slides across Dean's face at her clarification while Sam lets out a mumbled "You have got to be kidding me."

Dean does a quick scan of the situation, mentally calculating his chances with Janie and finding them vastly in his favor, then telling Sam to scram in a quick nonverbal conversation that involves a series of eyebrow furrows and imperceptible head nods.

Sam just huffs out a low breath, rolling his eyes in resignation at his big brother's antics. He's well-versed in Dean's luck with the ladies and long ago gave up trying to even come close to emulating his older brother's behavior. Probably for the best.

So Sam ambles off, half-heartedly searching for a food option that won't leave his stomach complaining for the next several days while Dean decides to make the most of Sam's mischief, taking Janie on a tour of his little brother's artwork.

He's just the right amount of funny and self-deprecating, having honed his shtick over several decades of skirt chasing, and Janie is a more than willing participant, eagerly contributing to the hormone fest taking place in the shadow of the Ferris wheel.

She cozies up to his right side, snuggling her hip up against his under the guise of getting a better look at Dean's cast decorations, close enough that he catches a whiff of the strawberry scent in her hair.

Great. Now he's hungry for pie.

And while the cast does have its upside, it's what caught her attention in the first place after all, it's significantly hampering the moves available to him.

Instead of the smooth signature move he's perfected over the years – gently tucking the hair of his Woman of the Week behind her ear with his right hand, then slowly trailing it down her neck before he leans in for a kiss – he's forced to angle his whole body towards her in order to reach across and attempt the same maneuver with his left hand. A distinctly foreign concept to his less-coordinated left hand which takes way more concentration than it really should. Especially when he manages to get her hair tangled in her earring.

She winces in response to his tugged attempts to free her hair, then finally pushes his hand away when it's clear he's only making it worse.

"I am so sorry," he says to her in all honesty, grimacing in turn while he watches her attempting to untangle the mess surrounding her right ear. "Damn that little punk," he mutters under his breath.

"What?" Janie asks absently, hands busy trying undo Dean's less-than handiwork.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to face straight ahead, although he's still silently cursing the reason he's in this mess in the first place.

"Oh wait!" he says, turning back towards her, inspiration having struck through his hormone-clouded brain. "How long have you worked at the rink? Did you know Jason Whitaker?"

Her breath catches and she goes still, hands forgetting their previous task and dropping into her lap. Her eyes widen and Dean's picks up on the excess liquid threatening to spill over the corners of her eyelashes; he's pretty sure his earring faux pas isn't the cause.

She gives a brief nod, swallows a couple of times, and then finally says, "He was my cousin."

Dean envisions any further attempts at getting to second base with this girl swirling the toilet before getting sucked right down the drain.

 _ **To Be Continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Oh shit," Dean mumbles under his breath, both in reaction to Janie's words and to the fact that the sudden downswing in his testosterone levels have allowed his pain receptors to rear their ugly heads. And they are not happy.

He bites his bottom lip in an effort to keep the grimace off of his face, hugging his arm to him as he instructs Janie to stay put and then heads off in search of Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asks taking in Dean's pallor once Dean's managed to locate his little brother. Thankfully, his "little" brother stands head and shoulders above most of the general population, and it hadn't taken Dean long to pick him out of the crowd.

Sam makes note of Dean's body posture and pain-edged expression, then quickly drops it once Dean's filled him in on their potential new star witness, following Dean back over to where Janie' still seated, confusion evident on her face, tangled knot of hair obscuring her right ear.

He takes a seat across from her, Comforting Sam face and puppy dog eyes firmly in place, and begins to gently question her about her late cousin.

"So. Jason." He begins, letting a small sad smile play across his own face. "What can you tell us about him?"

"Why?" Janie asks, guarded and a little suspicious with the sudden change in her evening's activities. "What are you guys interested in my dead cousin for?"

"Well," Sam begins, glancing at Dean for the go ahead before laying all their cards out on the table, "we're here looking into the 'weird activities' at the rink," he says, finger quoting the last words.

"What activities?" she asks, the dubious expression on her face matching her suspicious tone.

"You know," says Dean, having settled himself on the bench beside Sam, "the popcorn machine, the spontaneous bathroom floods, the shoelaces."

She lets out a rather relieved laugh and rolls her eyes. "Seriously? You're here for that? Why? What do you guys do? Investigate the lamest coincidences ever?" she asks with a snort.

"Let's just say we look into weird stuff," says Sam, hoping to get away with that thin explanation.

"What kind of weird stuff?" she says, narrowing her eyes and glancing between the brothers. "If I'm going to dish on Jason I need to know what kind of weird stuff," she adds, eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Fine," Sam huffs out, shrugging at Dean who shrugs back. "Ghosts. Monsters. You know – weird stuff."

"Yeah, well," she says, "Jason may have been a little wild, but he was no monster."

Dean leans forwards, careful to keep his arm from banging into the picnic table, and says, "Yeah, but now we're pretty sure he's a ghost."

Her eyes widen, her own complexion losing its previous hormone-induced flush, and the brothers can almost see the questions tumbling over each other in her head.

"Seriously? How? I mean, why? I mean, seriously?" she finishes, her last words ending in a squeak that has the brothers flinching at its octave.

"We think the weird stuff that keeps happening around the rink may be linked with Jason. May be some kind of ghostly hijinks," Sam says, rolling his eyes at his brother when Dean snickers at his use of the work "hijinks".

"And," Sam adds, "we think Dean here is one of our biggest clues. Your cousin was the one who tripped him."

"Oh. Wow. Sorry," Janie says, cringing a little in apology.

"It's fine," Dean says to Janie while his facial expression is busy telling Sam to "shut up and stop embarrassing me".

"But. I mean," she stammers, clearly trying to put together the missing pieces of information regarding how her dead cousin could be causing trouble from the Great Beyond, the nonverbal conversation between the brothers not even registering on her radar.

"Look," says Dean, trying to get their little discussion on the fast track so he can get back to the motel and shove some pain medications down his throat, the throbbing in his arm threatening to reach critical levels if he doesn't head it off pretty damn soon, "not to be insensitive or anything," he rolls his eyes again at Sam's snort, "but we've got a job to do. So can you help us out here or what?"

She gives the brothers a long considering look, eyes resting on Dean's casted arm before glancing back up at his face and nodding in agreement. "Sure. What do you need?"

They spend the next few minutes finding out where he's buried (and learning all about the weird little small town privacy law, the reason they couldn't find the information online), getting directions to the gravesite, and convincing her that they really do have to perform a salt and burn to get the activities to cease and desist.

Dean's never been so happy to have his romantic possibilities go up in flame. He hopes the rest of the evening follows suite. Literally.

()o()o()o()o()

"Come on, Sammy. Put your back into it!" Dean calls, enthusiastically encouraging his brother while he holds the flashlight down into the gravesite Sam's digging, careful to stay just far enough out of Sam's reach to avoid a swat or a face full of dirt.

"Shut up," Sam says, grunting as he hefts yet another shovel full of dirt up and over the side of the oh-so slowly forming hole.

Dean can't help the smirk that covers his face at the continued grumblings of his brother, Sam verbalizing profusely the unfairness of having to dig the entire time. Dean, meanwhile, thinks that this might be the one good thing to come out of him having to wear this gigantic cast – flashlight duty and a medical red shirt. It almost makes the unrelenting ache in his arm worthwhile. Almost.

"Oh, thank God," Sam says half an hour later, shirt drenched with sweat and mind numbed to Dean's endless ribbing, when his shovel finally makes contact with a firm wooden surface. A couple of swift downward thrusts confirms that he's reached the motherlode (if a decaying human body can ever be considered the motherlode), and he makes quick work of hoisting himself out of the hole, allowing Dean to liberally cover the coffin in salt and gasoline before he takes great pleasure in being the one to strike the match.

Both brothers let out a sigh of relief as they watch the flames engulf the remnants of Jason Whitaker, equally ready to high tail it out of this disaster of a town after a good night's rest (and once Sam no longer smells like something that's been fermenting at the back of the fridge for a month, Dean's quick to add).

The brothers don't even think twice about the relative ease with which they've dispatched of their target.

They probably should have.

()o()o()o()o()

"Oh, come on, man. Seriously?" Dean mutters, gingerly moving his arm in order to see the new additions to his cast. As if the previous girly artwork wasn't bad enough, sometime last night (or early this morning), Sam had found the time to grace his cast with additional humiliation. He can now make out phrases that include "I love Janie", "Sk8er 4 Life", and "I (heart) Whistle Girl".

Maybe he shouldn't have tried so hard to push Sam's buttons last night. He'd completely forgotten about his brother's surplus supply of White Out.

Sam emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, smirking when he catches Dean sitting up against the head of his bed, grumbling to himself as he inspects his little brother's latest form of retribution.

Sam's satisfaction is short lived, however, his attention quickly diverted by the ringing of his cell phone and Craig's frantic ramblings.

"The shit's hit the fan man! Damned popcorn machine's possessed, had to turn the water off in the whole building. And the laces – I can't even order enough to replace them all!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sam says, running his hand through his hair as he tries to make sense of the manager's panic-laden statements. "Slow down. What?" he says, putting the phone on speaker so he won't have to repeat everything to Dean.

The brothers can hear Craig taking a couple of deep inhalations, and both of them are pretty sure that there is more than likely some sort of plant being puffed at the other end of the phone.

"Craig!" Dean practically shouts, trying to get the manager's attention.

"Oh, right," the manager says, clearing his throat and letting out a rather nervous chuckle. "So, I come in this morning, everything's all cool, nothing out of the ordinary. I check my voice mail, hear the message from you, Sam, and figure we're all set. Then Janie shows up a little while ago and it all goes to hell. All the same stuff, but, like, at warp speed."

Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean, who just gives his brother a shrug, and says, "Well, I guess you pissed him off last night, Sammy. Good job."

Sam just rolls his eyes, not even bothering to let Dean push his buttons, and quickly reassures Craig that they'll be right over.

"Alright," says Dean, carefully working his arm through the sleeve of his shirt in an effort to get dressed and get themselves over to the rink ASAP. "What'd we miss?"

"Well," says Sam, hustling through the same activity in order to help his brother get a move on, "he said it was fine until Janie showed up. You think she's involved somehow?"

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters, "like some kind of personal effect of his that she keeps with her. Didn't even think to ask her about that last night."

"Well, why would we? I mean, it seemed clear cut enough. Besides," Sam says, sliding his glance over to Dean who's doing an okay job of getting his pants on with his left hand, "you were a little preoccupied. And your upstairs brain wasn't firing on all cylinders, now was it?"

"Shut up, bitch."

"Make me, jerk."

Dean can't wait until his arm stops hurting long enough to give Sam a good wallop with his plaster cast. It really will make rather spectacular Sam-munition.

()o()o()o()o()

"Any day now, Sam," Dean says, pacing back and forth while his brother picks the lock on the front door. At least Craig or Janie had had the sense to prevent the general public from entering the hot zone, the large hastily printed "Closed due to Emergency" sign taped to the double doors of the roller skating rink a nice touch.

"You want to do it?" Sam mumbles, the exasperation dripping of his tongue. "Be my guest."

"Nah. You need the practice," Dean says, although they both know Sam's the better lock pick, even when Dean has two good arms. If he tried now, they probably wouldn't make it inside before sundown. And it's only eleven in the morning.

"Yahtzee," Sam says, holding the door open for his brother who breezes past him, nose wrinkling as he sniffs the air inside the building.

"Smells like you burnt the popcorn again, Sammy," he says.

"Would you let that go?" Sam says with a huff, locking the door carefully behind him. "It was the microwave. Not my fault the thing fritzed out."

"Genius gets a scholarship to Stanford, can't even make microwave popcorn," Dean says just loud enough for Sam to hear, leading his brother as they creep down the entryway, peering in through the window of the closed door of the managers' office, Craig's feet barely visible from his location tucked under his desk.

Sam just rolls his eyes in exasperation and knocks quietly on the door, eliciting a muffled curse from inside the room, followed by the sight of Craig peeking around the side of the desk, his body visibly sagging in relief when he sees the faces of his rescuers.

"Oh, thank God," he says, quickly pulling them into the room behind him, closing the door and making a beeline back to the other side of his office.

"Where's Janie?" Dean asks, glancing around the room and finding no other obvious hiding spots.

"Uh…," Craig stammers, face flushing as he glances furtively anywhere but at the brothers.

"She out there?" Dean asks, pointing in the general direction of the rest of the rink. "Alone? Did you leave her out there by herself?"

"What?" Craig says, shrugging in defense. "I panicked. Came in here, tried to take the edge off, if you know what I mean," he says, making a gesture that confirms Sam and Dean's suspicions that the manager had used some of his favorite herbal therapy prior to their arrival. "But," he says, glancing around nervously, "I think I may have a bad stash. Cause it's kinda makin' me freak out a little more."

Dean just gives an exasperated eyeroll and moves towards the door, intent on putting an end to Jason, this hunt, and his time in this town.

"Wait," says Sam, tugging on Dean's left sleeve. "What's the plan?"

"Plan is to find Janie. Figure out what she's got that's keeping that little punk ghost around. And then torch it," Dean says succinctly, his expression wondering what the hell kind of plan Sam thought he had.

Now it's Sam's turn for the exasperated eyeroll, followed by an expression of "duh". "Fine. You got the salt?" he asks, well aware that they'd used it all last night and hadn't had time to stop on the way to restock. "Matches? Lighter? And how about if Jason decides to up the ante? Got any kind of ghost deterrent weapons?"

"Fine Bitch. How about you go on supply collection duty, I'll go find Janie. That enough of a plan for you?" he asks.

Craig warily eyes the brothers and slowly slides his way back under the desk, mumbling just loud enough for them to hear, "I'll just wait here. Let me know when you're done."

The brothers give him the hairy eyeball before making their way out of the door, neither of them having any empathy for the tripping manager who would leave a coworker to fend for themselves.

They creep down the hallway towards the rink, Sam making a quick trip to the Impala and returning with a couple of iron pipes to use in self-defense (not convinced Jason's shenanigans warrant a full-blown shotgun full of rock salt), and as they approach the large open space they can see the overhead lights flickering every now and again and hear the music over the loudspeaker break up during the same timeframe.

"Alright," whispers Sam, handing one of the pipes to Dean, "I'm going to head over to the concession stand. There's probably salt over there for the popcorn. You got the fire?"

"Yep," says Dean, showing Sam the rather high-end lighter in his right hand while his left hand takes the pipe and settles it in his sling.

"Nice," says Sam, turning the lighter over in his hands, eyebrows raising as he takes in the monogrammed initials. "Where'd you get this?"

"Lifted it off Craig's desk. Nice huh? I think it's the least he can do," he says with a shrug. "You see Janie anywhere?"

The brothers glance around the mostly open space, Sam finally pointing across the rink to a turned over folding table with a pair of shoes sticking out the side, the odd popcorn missile from the nearby machine bouncing off of her makeshift bunker at random intervals.

"Okay, I'm going in," says Dean, nodding at Sam to get this show on the road.

"Remember to use your upstairs brain this time!" Sam stage whispers after him, already heading towards his salty destination.

Dean's in the middle of the rink by the time he hears Sam, making a hand gesture in reply, when the lights flicker again, the loudspeaker fuzzing over simultaneously, and the popcorn machine next to Sam decides to have a seizure.

Sam has to duck behind a counter to avoid the little buttery missiles that are liable to take an eye out if he's not careful, and it takes him a few seconds to scramble around before he finds a plastic tray to use as a shield.

When he finally emerges from behind the counter, beelining it towards the condiments counter, he catches a glimpse of Dean backing towards Janie, left arm swinging the pipe as Jason's flickering image skates lazily back and forth just out of his reach.

"You okay back there?" asks Dean, warily keeping one eye on Jason while he backs towards Janie, not wanting humiliation to strike twice on the same floor by having him end up on his ass yet again.

"Dean?" she squeaks out, peeking around the table, eyes going wide when she sees Jason's image. "I guess you guys weren't lying. He won't let me leave." She leans a little farther out from her hiding spot and yells slightly louder, "Jason! Stop it! Why are you doing this?"

"We think he's still tied to something here," says Dean, crouching down beside her, eyes still on the meandering teenager. "Something you have."

At her bewildered expression, he goes on to explain that usually when this type of thing happens it's because someone still has something belonging to the deceased.

"Can you think of anything?" he prods her, breaking his eye contact with Jason's image just long enough to see Sam rifling through the concession stand with one hand, the other holding his makeshift shield.

"No way," she says softly. At Dean's raised eyebrows she adds, "I wear his shoelace in one of my sneakers. You know, in memory. He was wearing it when he died."

"Yep, that'll do it," says Dean, not sparing a moment to offer any of the emotions Sam seems to dole out like candy. "Gonna need it. Now. Like ASAP," he adds, eyeballing Jason's image as it continues to flicker in and out, skating lazy figure eights that draw ever closer to his and Janie's location.

She gulps audibly, then quickly removes her right sneaker, pulling the lace out and thrusting it towards Dean.

"Great. Thanks," he says distractedly, already looking for his next item on the To Do list. He wracks his brain and tells Janie to stay put, scurrying away towards the maintenance room just down the back hallway. He returns momentarily, tossing the shoelace into the half-shell of the broken disco ball he'd seen during his initial scouting of the building, glancing up when Sam yells his name, catching the salt shaker hurling towards his head with only a minimal amount of fumbling.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters to himself, working to flick the lighter into activity with his uncoordinated left hand, having seasoned the shoelace liberally with salt. He glances around, flame having now made an appearance, trying to figure out how he can keep Craig's high end lighter for future use while burning Jason's link to this world.

"Popcorn. Disco ball," he says, gesturing for Janie to help him throw some of the popped kernels littering the ground around him into the makeshift fireplace, hoping the butter-like oil they're covered in will help the conflagration process. He waves a couple of the pieces through the flame before chucking them into the disco ball, watching satisfactorily as the contents go up in the flame, Jason following suit.

"Is it over?" Janie asks, peeking out from behind the table, taking in the now quiet popcorn machine, uninterrupted music, and normal lighting.

"Yeah. We should be good now," Dean says.

"Oh, thank God," she says, slumping against him in relief.

Dean gets a whiff of the strawberry scent of her hair which is enough for his upstairs brain to step aside in order for his downstairs brain to get in on the action, only to silently curse Sam once again as she gets a peek at the new humiliating additions to his cast.

"Do you really heart Whistle Girl?" she asks, tracing her finger along Sam's White Out declaration. "Cause if so, I can show you some of the things she can do. And they're fantastic."

A slow smile breaks across Dean's face, offering a silent thank you to the gods for seeing fit to grant him this one passing chance at happiness in the midst of this crappy hunt.

Someday he might even thank Sam for being such an annoying little brother.

 **THE END**

 **Author's Notes:** Thanks for your patience while the Muse meandered back to this story (although I'm still not quite she made it the whole way back). And I have no idea if popcorn would really work in this Salt and Burn situation but artistic license, etc., etc., etc.


End file.
